


the walls keep getting wider

by blackkat



Series: Marvel Drabbles [8]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel 616, Moon Knight (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, References To Previous Deaths, Supernatural Elements, Wingfic, and resurrections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22086931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Just for an instant, a moment so brief Steve barely catches it, he sees Marc's wings, and he never has before. They look brown, or maybe golden, but they vanish again too quick for even Steve to see more than a bare glimpse.It’s interesting. Moon Knight has white wings, with undersides of unrelieved black. The fact that Marc Spector’s wings are entirely different is startling.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Marc Spector
Series: Marvel Drabbles [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1422472
Comments: 17
Kudos: 412





	the walls keep getting wider

“How was being dead?” is the first thing Marc says to him when they meet again.

Steve pauses, not entirely sure how to deal with the forthrightness. Most people—Tony included—have been dancing around his resurrection as though mentioning it will send him back into his grave.

Steve's heard far too many people say _while you were away_ , and every time he wants to yell at them _I was dead, just say it_.

Here, now, someone is saying it, and he’s not sure what to do with it.

“Not boring enough,” he finally settles on, and shifts his shield off the far seat. The diner is quiet, almost empty except for a tired-looking waitress and a woman wearing headphones as she writes single-mindedly in a notebook, and it’s…not entirely objectionable to have company, given that.

Marc's not usually bad company, anyway. It’s been a while since he was with the Avengers, but—maybe Steve's always had a soft spot for people who tend to be out of place. He knows all too well what it’s like.

Marc's gaze flickers from Steve to the empty seat and back again, and for a moment he frowns like he doesn’t know what to do with this, either. Steve waits him out, patient, and after a minute of silence Marc lets out a slow breath and sinks down onto the bench. With a smile, Steve pushes his bowl of fruit across the table, and Marc takes it with a bemused expression.

“I guess the Red Skull makes everything too interesting,” Marc says, and steals the spoon Steve isn't using to scoop up a grape. “At least you didn’t have to deal with an asshole god laughing at you.”

Steve's never been quite sure how much of Marc's god is his brain conjuring images and how much is real, but…there’s a settling, behind his breastbone, that could be relief. Khonshu is apparently real enough for Marc to know what dying is like, and it feels like a hand offered to help prop him up.

“He’s not even _creative_ ,” Steve says, halfway between plaintiveness and a complaint, and leans back in his seat, picking up his coffee. He swirls the dregs around the bottom of the cup, watching the reflection of the light in the tar-like liquid, and wonders why Marc's here.

If Marc senses the question, there’s no sign. He just grunts, cutting a piece of melon in half, and says, “Nazis aren’t, generally.”

Steve winces. “They really aren’t.” He manages a wan smile for the waitress as she comes over to offer Marc a menu, which he waves off.

“Coffee,” he says. “And pancakes. Thanks, Gena.”

“Sure, Jake,” the woman says, a little warmer than she’s been to Steve. “Strawberries instead of syrup?”

The flicker of Marc's smile is charming in a way Steve hadn’t really thought it could be. “You know me, Gena. Not enough sweet in the world to make up for me, so I don’t even try. How’s Ray?”

Gena scoffs, but her eyes are soft. “In trouble up to his ears, but what’s new? He bought a damned motorcycle and is trying to fix it up, but god willing it won’t ever start.” When Marc opens his mouth, she levels a finger at him. “Don’t you dare offer to help him, Jake Lockley. I don’t want him on that death trap for a second, understand?”

Marc raises his hands. “Sure, Gena.”

Gena eyes him narrowly, then nods in satisfaction. “I’ll get you your coffee, just sit tight.”

Bemused, Steve watches her walk away, and as she rounds the counter he catches a half-second flicker of her wings coming visible, long and brown and sleek. Not a gentle thing’s wings, for all that she runs a diner. Some people are like that, though.

“Jake?” he asks, pointed.

Marc doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m a lot of different people,” he says. “Just me right now, though.”

Steve doesn’t say that that isn't really an answer. Doesn’t point out that, if Marc is a lot of people, _me_ could refer to any one of them. Natasha’s mentioned something about multiple personalities in their crowd before, though, and Steve can tell a sore subject when he trips over it. He sets it aside, waits until Gena has brought over the coffee and refilled their cups, and then looks at Marc again. He’s dressed like he’s been out all night, clothes creased, stubble lining his jaw, and there are shadows under his eyes that say he needs the coffee more than Steve does. But—

Just for an instant, a moment so brief Steve barely catches it, he sees Marc's wings, and he never has before. They look brown, or maybe golden, but they vanish again too quick for even Steve to see more than a bare glimpse.

It’s interesting. Moon Knight has white wings, with undersides of unrelieved black. The fact that Marc Spector’s wings are entirely different is startling.

It means something, too. It means he’s worried enough to show it, and worried enough to show up here, clearly looking for Steve. Steve stays where he is, watching Marc pick through the fruit for a long moment, and has to swallow against the tightness of his throat. There are plenty of heroes who have died and come back to life, but—Steve hasn’t been able to make himself talk to any of them about it. None of the situations are quite the same, and he can never find the right words. Plenty of people _would_ talk to him, but…Steve hasn’t been able to talk to any of _them_.

Marc isn't asking for talking, though. He’s offering quiet camaraderie, simple presence. Humor, too, when Steve didn’t expect it of him.

That flicker-flash of wings is enough to show concern, and Steve can feel it bleed through him like warmth. Like what he was trying for with the coffee, but couldn’t manage with physical heat alone.

“I could use some time as myself, instead of someone else,” he says wryly, and—maybe Marc will understand where most people don’t.

Marc pauses, glances up. His brown eyes flicker over Steve, up and down in a careful assessment, and he weighs something for a moment before he asks, “Have you gone flying?”

Steve's throat closes. He hasn’t. Not since he came back to life. Every time he’s thought about it, he’s found something better to do, or he’s changed his mind at the last moment. Keeping his feet on the ground has just seemed so much…easier.

Or maybe a part of him is scared he’ll spread his wings out and see a stranger’s feathers instead of his own.

It happens, Steve knows. Personal changes, accidents, shifts in a standard life—they can change a person’s wings completely. Bucky’s used to be a starling’s wings, the feathers sleek and bright; when he came back, when he was the Winter Soldier, they were iron-grey and banded with red. Now, after carrying’s Steve's shield for so many months, they’re fading back to deep russet-red, speckled with grey instead of drowning in it. A hopeful change, but—

Steve's own change might not be so kind.

“No,” he finally manages. “It’s been…busy.”

It’s true enough, but the excuse still tastes like cowardice in his mouth, flat and bitter. Steve grimaces, rubbing a hand over his face, and doesn’t look at Marc until he’s sure his expression is under control.

When he does, Marc is watching him, eyes narrowed, somewhere between suspicious and thoughtful. He’s silent for a long, long moment, and—

“Here you are, Jake,” Gena says, and Marc turns to look at her. The flicker of his wings this time is more deliberate, lingers, but they're not the same wings Steve just saw. Tawny russet, instead, barred with white—an owl’s wings, Steve thinks, because he’s seen one like that in the park before.

“Thanks, Gena,” Marc— _Jake_ says, giving her a smile, and now that Steve's looking he can see the difference, the faint shift of Marc's body to make it Jake's. Jake leans towards people, open, easygoing. Marc is closed-off and quiet, reserved but not hostile. The wings just make it clearer.

“Don’t think it’s going on your tab,” Gena warns. “You pay up or next time all I'm giving you is one of Crawley’s used teabags.”

“You know how business sometimes comes up,” Jake protests, but he shifts the plate more squarely in front of him. Gena just waves an irritated hand, heading back towards her kitchen, and Jake watches her go.

Steve can see the moment Marc comes back as his gaze slides back to Steve. Can see the ghostly image of wings fold behind him, gold and iron and cream, and the way he tips his chin up like he’s challenging Steve to make something of it.

Squarely, steadily, Steve meets his gaze, and says, “There’s nowhere to fly in the city.”

Marc doesn’t call him on the obvious lie; after all, Avengers Tower is the perfect place for flight, and it’s not as though anyone would protest Captain America stretching his wings on the helipad there. The idea of doing it so publicly makes Steve's skin crawl, though, and something sour settle in his gut. If dying changed him, if he’s someone different after the Red Skull’s actions and the war with Tony and Registration, if he gets up there and shows people and they _know_ —

Marc looks down at his pancakes, cutting into them like he didn’t just drag all of Steve's insecurities out into the light. It feels, strangely, like relief; there’s no judgement in Marc's face, nothing except easy attention. He’s listening, and nothing more.

“Grant’s got a mansion upstate,” he says, without looking at Steve. “Lots of forest around it. Not a lot of people. If you're looking for a place.”

Steve stares down into his coffee, not sure what to make of the offer. Marc isn't the person he would have expected this from. It’s not as if they're close; Marc was with the Avengers for a year or two, them moved to the West Coast Avengers for a while. Burned his Avengers card, dramatically and unforgettably, during the mess of Registration, because there was never going to be a time someone like Moon Knight was comfortable with being stuck on a government database and supervised in his work. He and Steve aren’t friends, though.

Maybe that’s what makes it easy to open his mouth and say, “Are you sure you want me there? I might eat you out of house and home.”

Marc snorts softly, glancing at Steve's three empty plates. “Nedda will be overjoyed to have someone to cook for again,” he says dryly. “Steven and I don’t give her nearly enough work.” He pauses, expression careful as he studies Steve, and then says, “It’s nice to get out of the city sometimes.”

Steve smiles tiredly. He’s been all around the world as an Avenger, has seen things that most people never get to experience, has lived lives most people never dream of, and yet he can't remember the last time he actually took a vacation. “Spoken like someone not from New York,” he jokes.

Marc rolls his eyes. “Chicago is a city, too,” he says, unimpressed. “Fuck off.”

Steve laughs, startled into it. “Chicago?” he asks. “Really?” He hadn’t known that about Marc.

“Yeah, Chicago,” Marc says, mildly defensive. “But upstate can be nice. Hell of a lot less crowded.”

Steve supposes that it is. And—

He does want to fly again. His wings are there for a reason, and he’s always loved the open air. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the booth, and lets out a slow breath.

The world’s gotten on without him for this long. It will probably survive him taking a trip up north for a few days.

“Your wings,” he says, before he can think better of it, and opens his eyes to meet Marc's careful gaze. “What are they?”

Marc is silent for a long moment, like he’s weighing his answer. “Peregrine falcon,” he finally says, and his smile is faintly crooked when it comes. “Before I died, they looked like a sparrow’s wings.”

 _Before I died_. It feels like a knot in Steve's chest pulls loose at those words, a sharp jerk that unspools the tension. Not the only one, he thinks again, but this time it’s more immediate, sharper, kinder. He breathes out, remembering the Red Skull’s laughter, Crossbones’s bullet, _Sharon’s_ bullet. Drops his coffee on the battered wood, braces his elbows on the table, and leans forward, burying his face in his hands.

Somehow, hearing that feels more accepting than any _welcome back_ he’s gotten so far.

“If they changed, they changed,” Marc says, quiet, and he doesn’t reach out, doesn’t try to pat Steve on the shoulder or offer him any more than his presence, but…it’s enough. “There’s nothing you can do about it but keep moving. Besides. They still fly the same, right?”

Steve snorts, smiling before he can help himself. “It’s just my luck that I would have come back with emu wings,” he says, muffled, and Marc laughs.

“I promise not to tell anyone if you have,” he says dryly, and when Steve lifts his head to shoot him a narrow look, he raises a brow in return. “Cap. You’ll be fine.”

“Steve,” he tells Marc, and if there’s a lump in his throat, it’s just relief. It’s just the fact that, for the first time since his resurrection, he feels like he doesn’t have to keep his wings pressed close against his spine, even the ghostly image of them an unforgivable tell. “Please, Marc. Call me Steve.”

Marc watches him for an endless second before he nods and glances away. “Steve,” he corrects himself. “I’ll set things up. Today?”

Getting away from the Avengers, from the city, shouldn’t feel like freedom. That probably means it’s about time, though. Steve sighs, and tries not to sound pathetically grateful when he says, “Please.”

Marc flicks him a look, too much understanding in his face. “Don’t mention it,” he says, and goes back to his pancakes with a single-mindedness that says he’s faintly embarrassed.

Steve just smiles and follows the flicker of his wings, golden and grey in the fluorescent light, as they shift like Marc is going to curl them around the booth, protect them from prying eyes. Moon Knight probably knows about that well enough, but—

It’s a surprise, that he’d offer that protection to Steve. A surprise that he’d offer comfort at all. Steve if grateful, though, and he closes his eyes again, lets the tension ease out of his shoulders just a little.

Marc's right. It will be nice to find somewhere to fly again.


End file.
